A Road to Faith, Lined With Questions

I knelt on the carpeted floor next to the twin bed in my darkened bedroom and prayed. It was a simple prayer, asking God to officially become a part of my life.

At the age of 6, after years of hearing stories about Jesus during Sunday school at Grace Community Chapel in St. Charles, Mo., I wanted to sign up. I wanted Jesus to "come into my heart," as we were told in church He needed to do if we were to receive salvation. I wanted it so badly that I prayed to become a Christian for three straight nights before my parents convinced me that once was enough. I still made them pray with me on the third night, just to be sure I did it right.

I have my parents to thank for my early religious devotions. Their faith was not a formality. While attending church was mandatory, I could see a desire to serve God in their daily lives, whether through the daily devotions my dad held before leaving for work, or their genuine displays of love for others.

As a young child I was very secure in my salvation. My parents told me that Jesus was the son of God and that was enough for me. Their word was as legitimate as the Gospels; I needed no other proof. But as I grew older, I had my doubts.

I was 13 the first time I questioned God's existence. It happened during a visit to a water park while in church camp. While taking a breather with a trip down the park's lazy river, my mind began to drift. Out of nowhere the thought hit: What if there isn't really a God?

As quickly as it struck I sought to block it. I'd never questioned my spiritual beliefs before, and I didn't see a need to start now. Things were complicated enough thanks to the hell that was life at Barnwell Middle School, and this was not the time to have God smiting me for questioning his existence. I spoke with a minister at the camp about the issue. He was helpful and encouraging, despite never actually answering any of my questions.

Throughout the next few years I lived a kind of halfhearted faith. I went to church; I didn't drink, didn't smoke, didn't commit any "big" sins. There was my language, which grew saltier as I grew older, though I blamed this largely on marching band camp. Anyone spending 13 hours on a football field in Missouri during July, trucking around a 50-pound sousaphone, is at risk for developing a vocabulary that would make a construction worker blush.

Despite my doubts, I still believed in God and prayed to Him. Granted, some nights I was praying for Him to command Angela, the mellophone player in a neighboring band, to find me irresistible, though I soon realized that either He didn't or she didn't listen to Him. But the way I saw it, a prayer was a prayer.

As far as I was concerned, the little things didn't matter. I didn't need to spend hours reading the Bible or in prayer. I had prayed to become a Christian when I was 6, and everything that happened after that was simply a formality. My ticket was punched and I was Heaven-bound.

One day during my senior year of high school it hit me that within a year I would be hours away from friends and family, attending Southeast Missouri State University -- cut off from everything I knew except God.

The notion of leaving home was exciting but scary, and I soon found an intense desire to know God beyond the standard Sunday morning meetings and quick weeknight exchanges before bed. If God was going to be with me in Cape Girardeau, I wanted -- needed -- to get better acquainted with Him.

I began to spend more time in prayer and cracked open my Bible. Soon two things happened: I realized how little I had been invested in my faith up to that point. And my doubts came flooding back.